


Atlas Shrugged

by kuwdora



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Porn Battle VI
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-09
Updated: 2008-08-09
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:45:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1723556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuwdora/pseuds/kuwdora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were no angels perched upon Mohinder’s shoulders, nor Sylar’s, watching them, passing judgement. If there were, Mohinder would have brushed them off to find anchor for his hands as he pulled Sylar closer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atlas Shrugged

**Author's Note:**

> Polished and extended version of a pornlet that was originally written for Porn Battle VI. Prompts: breathless, divine.

Sylar shoved Mohinder to the bed and crawled onto him with a vivaciousness Mohinder had never seen before, crashing into his lips and kissing fervently like it was the last time he’d be allowed to touch, breathe, _feel_ him, all of him. Heads, shoulders, cocks and toes; they all rubbed together, creating enough friction to light the driest of tinder. That wasn’t a problem for Sylar whose cock was already slick with precome and lube, sliding easily into the curve of Mohinder’s hand. He sucked on the soft lips he found, his tongue probing, insistent, trying to retrieve Mohinder’s very essence, a delight he was all too keen to devour.

Mohinder gave himself over to Sylar’s infatuation, all cogent thought being driven from his mind, which was a good thing. It would keep him from over-thinking this, wondering how and why he felt such unadulterated lust and need for someone who had done such abhorrent, unspeakable things, created so many ills in the world and in his very life. It was wrong that the hot breath and lips that had lied and deceived him so many times could make him squirm and writhe in blissful agony, wanting more.

Good conscience, bad conscience, it-didn’t-really-matter-conscience. There were no angels perched upon Mohinder’s shoulders, nor Sylar’s, watching them, passing judgement. If there were, Mohinder would have brushed them off to find anchor for his hands as he pulled Sylar closer, trying to suppress a moan, Sylar’s grinding cock hurtling him towards to the edge.

Mohinder’s hands slid up and down Sylar’s back as they moved together, growing sticky-warm from the gathered sweat. His shoulders were broad, broad enough to bear the weight of the world if he wanted. Instead he carried only his ego and arrogance, which was more than any normal angel could bear. But there were no angel wings there, no halo buried beneath his crown of superiority. Sylar never truly pretended that he was really an angel, that how he conducted his life was good. But there were no horns peeking out either, no tail that Mohinder could metaphorically surmise, though literally his hands drifted to Sylar’s ass and grabbed to make sure. Sylar never pretended to be evil. Sylar was a man, a twisted and mutated man who ran headlong to whatever he was passionate about and didn’t stop until he had what he wanted. In a way Mohinder could respect and empathize such single-mindedness, even envy it. For Sylar, the sky wasn’t even the limit; only his imagination was. Mohinder knew that if Sylar wanted he could learn to fly and take back paradise with ease, if such a place existed.

Sylar didn’t have such lofty goals. Earthly pleasures, like the pleading sound of his name caught in Mohinder’s throat is what he wanted, knowing that he _meant_ something to someone above all else. Excitement hummed in his chest as he sank further into Mohinder’s touch. He left a trail of wet of kisses along his neck, licking and sucking tentatively beneath his ear, sending shivers down Mohinder’s very naked body that Sylar practically consumed with greed, hands roaming arms and hips, trying to follow the goosebumps back from where they came, a curiosity he’d love to better understand.

In a fluid movement that left Mohinder stunned, Sylar grabbed him by the hips and shimmied backwards off the bed, dragging him along, pulling the bed sheets with him. Sylar parted Mohinder’s legs and slid a hand down his own cock, moistening his fingers from the messy lube job. The devious look in Sylar’s face sent Mohinder’s heart tumbling to his throat and stomach into barrel rolls.

Sylar carefully traced the underside of Mohinder’s cock from tip to base, using a thick vein as a highway, traveling south and breaking no speed limits as he bridged the tender perineum. Enamored fingers started massaging Mohinder’s opening and Mohinder yielded into his hand, simultaneously fisting the sheets and letting out a long, drawn out sigh that sent a warble of desire to the pit of his stomach. Mohinder began pumping himself, unable to cope with the antagonizing pace that wheedled him. Sylar’s touch, a physical manifestation of calloused insults and threats inked in vitriol, corded with an affinity that he could never quite read, drove him up the wall—literally, figuratively—especially now as he slid up the sheets, the tips of fingers pressed _to_ him but not _in_. He’d end up on the ceiling sooner rather than later. Mohinder struggled to swallow and tightened the grip around his cock. He had no intention of setting himself off yet but Sylar’s assured fingers were too much, his cock aching more than he could possibly ignore. Struck dumb by the sight of Mohinder touching himself without remorse, Sylar forgot about taking his time and roughly inserted a finger, twisting until Mohinder trashed, heat and contracted muscles making Sylar reel in anticipation. Mohinder lost his rhythm in favor of bearing down on Sylar’s hand, heels slipping off the edge of the bed.

Sylar paused to help with Mohinder’s footing and coaxed his hips off the bed for the better angle. He inserted a second finger and Mohinder’s deflated gasp almost made Sylar come apart right there, all naked anguish reverberating through Mohinder’s body, right in the palm of his hand. He steadied himself, hand on Mohinder’s knee and pulled out, giving his own impatient cock a quick tug. His fingers danced along the outside of Mohinder thigh, sliding to a bony hip that he pressed a thumb into, a perfect handhold he wanted to remember forever. He spread Mohinder’s cheeks and took it easy, gently pushing into the unfamiliar territory. Mohinder’s lips parted soundlessly, bewildered by Sylar’s hugeness filling him, sending the pulse he knew Sylar could hear pounding in his head into overdrive. His heels slipped from the bed again but jumped back up in reflex and planted themselves firmly into bunched sheets. He arched as Sylar plunged deeper, strong hands coming to rest on his hips, keeping him steady. Mohinder resumed pumping as Sylar’s thumbs tickled him and found their notches.

The tightness around Sylar’s cock made his head fuzzy—something that only Mohinder had the ability to do, heat and burning pressure intoxicating in a way that his gifts would never be. Once he was balls deep and bent forward, he stilled, allowing the lust settle for a moment so he could take stock of way they fit together as one, transcending the loneliness that he’d known his whole life. Mohinder’s chest slowly rose and fell in tandem with his clenched fist, eyes closed, unaware of his gaze. It was nothing like Sylar expected, skin crawling with passion, joints on fire, sheen of sweat coating every inch their bodies. Mohinder’s staggered breathing and sound of fingers rasping against distended flesh rang loudly in his ears. Sylar had to summon every iota of control he could muster to keep himself together. Mohinder wrapped his legs around his waist and something unidentifiable flushed deep inside Sylar’s chest and spread outward, causing him to nearly buckle at the elbows.

He froze and Mohinder’s knees tightened, forcing him to release the pent-up air in his lungs. Mohinder shivered, absorbing the hot breath that violated him in familiar ways, needlepoint preludes of terror and torture washing over his body. When there wasn’t any further movement on Sylar’s behalf, he opened his eyes and lifted his head, surprised to see a bleak sign of fear in normally curious brown eyes. Sylar was wedged deep, ready to burst, but instead of moving he stared at him, lidded eyes full of apprehension. Sylar swallowed, tendons shifting in slow motion in Mohinder’s hazy view. With what little resolve he had left, Mohinder’s hands wandered to the iron grip on his hips and he dug heels into Sylar’s lower back, reminding him to thrust. He groaned as Sylar rocked into him, pleasure skyrocketing through his body.

Sylar’s hands ghosted Mohinder’s skin, fingers curling into the wiry pubic hair, eyes still leveled on Mohinder and hips still unmoving. Mohinder’s shredded whimpers turned into inflamed shock waves once they reached Sylar, coursing through his body, putting him even more on edge. Mohinder tangled his fingers in Sylar’s and guided them to his balls. Sylar tried to muffle his noise of surprise when he looked down at the sight of Mohinder’s leaking tip and their hands locked together. Sylar had learned how to process an enormous amount of extrasensory perceptions since becoming special, regulate those gifts and understand things, people— _life_ better than he ever did before, but this was something that was beyond his scope of his knowledge. Mohinder threw him for a loop, a sweaty loop full of precome and gnarled, animal-like sounds that pushed everything else out of existence, surpassing all comprehension. It scared him, realizing Mohinder was _that_ special and he somehow never, deep down in his bones, _knew_ how much, despite all his collective abilities.

Mohinder crossed his ankles and dug them into Sylar’s back, squeezing the hand that cupped his balls, the same hand that always had him by the balls in some fashion. Sylar exhaled smoothly and reset his grip on hips, the rawness of Mohinder’s face burned on the inside of his eyelids. Mohinder resumed his frantic pumping, watching and feeling Sylar throttle him, the dual friction flaying his skin and soul alive. Sylar’s tiny smile was the last thing he saw before he threw his head back, sensing the impending twinge of his balls and shudder of his cock. Mohinder brought himself over the edge with one hand, the other fumbling for Sylar’s wrist as whiteness spooled onto his stomach, lacing his dark fingers in the process. He continued grinding himself without grace or attempt to stifle moans that became synchronous with Sylar’s rhythmless pounding. Sylar charged into his own climax with a groan, head tipped down and thumping hard against Mohinder’s ass.

Mohinder twisted into the sheets beneath him, wrung empty by the time Sylar’s thrusts became unwieldy. He lost his footing in the midst of Sylar’s convulsions and fought to find his place again, hooking into Sylar’s tailbone and pulled him close. Sylar gasped as Mohinder clenched around the denouement of his orgasm and rocked with him, vision bleeding a terrifying white. Sylar’s hands slipped from his handholds as he jerked over the edge and Mohinder’s body sighed inwardly.

Mohinder grasped Sylar’s elbows, urging him closer with another heave in the ass. He relented and collapsed onto Mohinder, body half-sprawled over the lithe body, half over the edge of the bed. With his limbless help, Mohinder tiredly heaved them further up and Sylar toppled into him again with a huff. Mohinder twined his arms around Sylar’s shoulders, keeping him close enough not to pull his softening cock out, not yet, even though he was leaning heavily on his own sensitive member. Sylar pressed the side his face into Mohinder’s stomach, the grain of his jaw softened by the layers sweat and come.

Sylar shifted to make room for his arms and sank deeper into Mohinder like a wet blanket on the muggiest day of the year. There was an affectionate rumble beneath his cheek and he felt a hand come to brace his neck while the other carded sweat-dampened hair, eventually tracing his hairline from temple to nape. Nothing was better in that moment than the slow-moving pads of those fingers over his skin, rubbing tiny circles along it’s route, lulling him to sleep. They slid along the side of his neck and down his spine, kneading discs one at a time until they came to splay across his shoulders, fingers digging deep under the blades, holding him tight.

No horns pricked Mohinder’s fingers and he still didn’t find any evidence of wings beneath his palms. It was only Sylar in his arms and unsurprisingly he managed to learn how to fly without plumage and bring Mohinder with him.


End file.
